The Cowboy MEGAPACK ®. Owen Wister

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СКАЧАТЬ to put our mail in,” Wintergreen replies.

      “Mail?” the black-haired, beady-eyed stranger says. “You hombres must have a lot of girls writin’ you if—”

      “We are not getting letters from no girls,” Wintergreen says, dignified. “Lywell and me are learning people to be cowboys by mail, and—”

      “By mail! How’n thunder can you learn ’em by—”

      “Curly,” Orv says to the beady-eyed gent, “Wintergreen an’ Lywell have likely been out in the sun without their hats.”

      Laughing fit to bust a button, they ride away from us. Wintergreen’s face, I see, has turned somewhat pink.

      “Them coyotes,” he says, indignant, “won’t feel so smart after we have took in our first million bucks.”

      * * * *

      Arriving in Putantake, we ride straight to the post office and hurry in.

      “Mr. Simmons,” Wintergreen says business-like to the postmaster, “kindly put our mail in this here sack and—”

      “What mail?” old man Simmons asks.

      “The mail for the WL Correspondence School.”

      “I don’t know what you’ve been drinkin’, Wintergreen,” Simmons says, “but there ain’t even a postcard for you mavericks.”

      Somewhat dazed, Wintergreen and I stagger outside.

      “Lywell,” he says, voice husky, “do you suppose our ads ain’t writ right, or—” His voice chokes off, and his eyes widen. “Look!” he gasps.

      A stranger has stepped out of the Putantake Hotel. He is tall, bony and loose-jointed, with spectacles astraddle his long nose, and a orange shirt and new Levis held up by a silver studded belt. Seeing us, he seems pleased and removes a fancy, pearl-gray Stetson from slicked-down straw-colored hair. If ever a dude hit Putantake, this gent is it, and no mistake.

      “Mr. Wilson and Mr. Lilly, I believe,” he says pleasant.

      “How’d you know?” Wintergreen asks flabbergasted.

      “The proprietor of the hotel pointed you out. Gentlemen, I am”—he lowers his voice to a whisper—“Percival Octavius Ogram the Third, but,” and he raises his voice for one and all to hear, “just call me Omaha.”

      Wintergreen blinks bewildered. “You from Omaha?”

      “Boston,” the gent whispers, “but I don’t want it nosed around.”

      “Don’t blame you,” Wintergreen says, eyeing the dude thoughtful. “Did you, by any chance, read our ad in—”

      “Exactly,” Omaha says, a big smile coming to his bony face. “I’ve dreamed all my life of becoming a cowboy, and realizing the value of personal training, I’ve come here, instead of writing.”

      “Comes higher this way,” Wintergreen says hopeful. “Fifty dollars in advance.”

      “Cheap enough,” Omaha says, pulling out a wad of bills and peeling off fifty without batting a eye.

      Recovering from shock, Wintergreen stuffs the money into a pocket. “Load Omaha on behind your saddle, Lywell,” he says husky, “an’ leave us go home.”

      * * * *

      “Omaha,” Wintergreen says that evening, “the first thing a cowboy learns is to wash dishes.”

      Omaha blinks unhappy at the dirty dishes, but he wants to become a cowboy something furious. So he sets to work.

      “Wintergreen,” I say in a whisper, “leave us not crowd our pupil too much. He might get discouraged and pull out.”

      “Who cares?” Wintergreen smiles. “We got his money.”

      This is a point, indeed, so I say nothing further.

      Later, Wintergreen says, “Omaha, lesson number two is learning to play poker.”

      “Poker?” the dude says, blinking. “What is that?”

      “Get out your money, an’ I’ll show you,” Wintergreen says.

      Omaha digs out his roll, and Wintergreen runs down a deck.

      “Oh, a card game,” the dude says, looking pleased. “Back home I held the ‘flinch’ championship. But you’ll have to tell me about these cards. What’s this funny-looking fellow?”

      “That’s a jack,” Wintergreen explains. Then he tells Omaha about pairs, straights, flushes, and so on.

      “Dear me,” the dude says, shaking his head. “Sounds frightfully difficult; I hope I can catch on.”

      “You’ll catch on,” Wintergreen says, dealing.

      * * * *

      Wintergreen is right about that, and the way the aces keep turning up in Omaha’s hand beats anything you ever saw. When Wintergreen has lost ten dollars, he sighs deep and says, “I reckon you’ve learnt enough cowboy stuff for one day, Omaha.”

      After the dude has gone to his room, Wintergreen stares at the cards with a deep frown. “Lywell,” he murmurs, “you don’t reckon this jasper knows more’n he lets on?”

      “No,” I say positive. “He’s too dumb to come in out of the rain. He just had a run of beginner’s luck tonight.”

      Wintergreen looks some relieved. “I got thirty ringers left. Maybe tomorrow—”

      * * * *

      The next day, we teach Omaha how to ride a horse by himself. The first time, he gets into the saddle backwards. The second try, he kind of gets the hang of it and rides around the corral.

      “What do you know!” he says, looking surprised. “Won’t be long until I’ll be a cowboy.”

      “Sure,” Wintergreen says. “With us learnin’ you, you can’t miss.”

      Omaha smiles happy. “Certainly glad I came out West and happened to see your ad. Always wanted to be a—”

      “Time to learn to shoot,” Wintergreen cuts in, not caring to listen to Omaha run off at the mouth.

      The dude has never shot a gun. He takes my six in both hands like he is chopping wood with a ax, squeezes the trigger and blasts a hole through Wintergreen’s hat-brim. I grab the gun before he can take a second shot, and Wintergreen, his face pale, says, “That’s enough six-gun practice for one time.”

      * * * *

      That evening, Omaha wins another ten dollars at poker. For about half the night, Wintergreen lays in his bunk, cussing.

      “Lywell,” he says, “that hombre’s СКАЧАТЬ